


Take The House

by akire_yta



Series: prompt ficlets [442]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 03:59:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: scribbles97 askedSaw the TB5 Radio silence prompt and ... NOPE... not letting that stay there. So can we please have, Scott, John and FUN.





	Take The House

There was a narrow band of overlap between ‘what Scott found fun’ and ‘what John found fun.’  But that was also true of the frequency of the times when their days off overlapped.

As such, this was still a novel treat after all these years.  Scott planned to make the most of it.

John met him by the bar, and a tumbler of top-shelf whiskey was sliding onto the polished counter before Scott even as he took his seat.  “Good conference?” he asked; he knew better than to ask John how his paper went.

“Interesting.”  It was a rote answer, and Scott took no offense at the curt reply.  Instead he sipped his whiskey, savouring the smoky taste.  

They were attracting glances; the evening crowd was better dressed than the mobs Scott had pushed through earlier in the day.  But two young men lounging insouciantly in tailored tuxedos drinking $100-a-shot whiskey were bound to be noticed.  They passed the time with the smallest of small talk, Scott enjoying his first drink in weeks, John playing with the condensation on his glass, both paying out the minutes until it was time.

“Shall we then?”  John’s already moving by the time Scott’s got onto his feet on the slightly sticky floor.

Scott let John lead; with any other brother, he might have insisted on the largest crowd or the table with the loudest laugh.

But with John, the casino became a Colosseum, and they were out for blood.

John wove confidently through to the more sparsely populated tables, where serious players made serious faces as they laid down chits worth hundreds of dollars in a single go.

They didn’t do this often; but often enough that they don’t need to talk to coordinate a strategy.  Scott’s role is to play the playboy, the lovable rogue, the worse for drink with money burning a hole in his pocket and a desire to slum it out in the main room of one of the biggest casinos on the strip.

John sat quietly, barely moving except to push chits out or pull cards in.  He had a way, Scott knew, of becoming forgettable, invisible, right up until the moment he cleared all the money off the table.

Card counting wasn’t technically illegal; it was just frowned up.

Just when the security were starting to circle, John would fold, low-ball a bet, let fate and chance and probability catch up to him.

Scott knew his brother, knew his every tell – so why pass chits under the table when they could pass money from one to the other right under the croupier’s nose.

So John would, in some strange way, become visible, just another smart kid whose luck was wearing thin.  He looked the part; every casino Scott had ever been to had some book-smart skinny guy testing to see how smart he _really_  was.

That’s when Scott bought another drink, smiled at the prettiest person at the table, and began counting.

Either of them could call an end; a large tip to the croupier, an easy swagger to go collect their winnings.  The other would follow, catching up with their brother outside, where the desert heat was strong and the flow of people coming and going made it easy to disappear.

“Why does Vegas have the best all-night diners?” Scott asked, half an hour later as he dipped a french fry in the dregs of sauce from his demolished burger.

John was sprawled across the other side of the booth, his tie undone and loose around his neck.  “Liminal space?” he suggested.  “Or maybe a burger is the best way to end the day after taking the house.”

Scott laughed and pushed his plate of fries across to John.  “We’re billionaires, many times over.  How did this become our hobby?”

John ate a french fry, licking the salt off his fingers.  “Because we hate unfairness, and otherwise the house would always win?”

Scott shrugged, nodded, and ordered them another round of milkshakes.


End file.
